


Now Thee, On A Summer's Day

by james



Series: Seasons Change [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: Geralt is invited to a midsummer celebration with Jaskier.  Things move, albeit slowly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Seasons Change [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1767004
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	Now Thee, On A Summer's Day

Geralt was seated at a smaller table, near the edge of the village's center. It was noisy, and the air was filled with the smell of trampled dirt and fresh flowers, not to mention mead, ale, and the crisp scent of roasted pig. He had a plate in front of him; the butcher's wife had brought it over, giving him a smile along with a basket of bread and a jug of ale. Geralt had smiled back briefly, if only for the shy grin he'd got from the child following along at its mother's skirts, one hand clasping the fabric and the other holding the remnants of a sweetcake. Its face was covered in crumbs, staring at Geralt with wide eyes as its mother bustled on, calling greetings to friends and neighbors.

“See? I told you!” Jaskier plopped down beside him and Geralt moved his tankard away from the bard's hand with a practised ease. Jaskier pouted. “Oh, come on, I've been singing for two hours. My throat is all parched and dry.”

Geralt just raised an eyebrow at him. “Then you shouldn't be talking.”

Jaskier made a face at him, but then he laughed. He tried again to reach for the tankard and Geralt just raised it to his own lips.

While he was drinking, Jaskier stole a chunk of roast pork from his plate.

Geralt just scowled at him, but Jaskier seemed unmoved. He did turn to give a bright smile to the young woman who swung by and set another tankard down, along with another jug. She giggled as Jaskier thanked her with the flowery phrases Geralt knew belonged in a noble court or poetry books. The woman's cheeks flushed pink and she dimpled, and Geralt knew that if Jaskier wanted to, he'd have company for the rest of the evening.

But then he turned his head back to Geralt and scooted closer, pressing his knee against Geralt's. 

“Told me what,” Geralt asked, though he didn't really care. Jaskier would be gone, soon, chasing after the woman, or another, and Geralt would be left to find some blessed quiet eventually.

“That you'd be welcome,” Jaskier said, and he kept his voice quiet, as though not wanting the villagers to overhear. As though anyone but a Witcher could, over the noise of the musicians and enthusiastic, if not Oxenfurt-trained, singing of several of the locals.

Geralt could hear all of it, as well as the crackle of the giant bonfire and the snap of the smaller logs as they gave way. He'd seen midsummer festivals before, passing through small villages and larger towns alike. He never stayed, from lack of interest as well as lack of invitation.

It didn't surprise him that Jaskier had not only gotten himself invited – to play, of course, the novelty of a trained bard for their tiny festival was not to be passed up. But they'd apparently invited them both to attend, and Geralt had – initially – declined.

Jaskier had pestered, begged, pleaded, resorted to bribery, then finally, the morning of Midsummer's Eve, had simply looked at him and asked, “Please come.”

Geralt had sighed, because he would genuinely have preferred to be on his way. But he knew Jaskier would enjoy himself, and Jaskier had promised, over and over, that the villagers _had_ included him, specifically, in their invitation.

And they had been, if not warm and inviting, at least polite and friendly. To whit, they'd kept him reasonably well-fed and not seemed horribly offended when he'd failed to respond to anyone who asked if he cared to join the circle dancing.

Jaskier leaned against him, shoulder pressed against his own, and Geralt could feel his body heat, and smell the ale on his breath. There were globe flowers twisted into a chain around his neck, and another tucked behind his ear. The smell should have been overpowering, but the familiar scent of Jaskier, himself, wove through it and Geralt found the aroma...not unduly unpleasant.

He glanced over at Geralt and smiled, a mischievous grin that made him look like a spirit come to capture innocent young souls and carry them away. It was an expression Geralt saw often; he held himself back from smiling back, if only because it wouldn't do to encourage him. The bard was still young – too young to know what he still sometimes asked for, with the way he looked at Geralt, the way he smelled when Geralt was bathing in the river, or had returned from a hunt more irritable than injured.

Why _that_ caused the scent of lust, Geralt didn't want to think about. If Jaskier was attracted to Geralt's annoyance, he was in a lot of trouble. Both of them were.

Geralt took a long drink of his ale and looked out at the villagers, dancing, talking and laughing. Here and there, young people were standing as near to one another as they dared, clearly waiting for the other to be the first to make their move. The smallest children were starting to fall asleep in the laps of those too old to dance, still stamping their feet and clapping their hands and calling out lyrics that hadn't changed since they'd been tiny, themselves. It all felt like one giant family celebration.

Tomorrow, Geralt knew, it would all go back to normal, but for now everyone cast aside their problems and feuds. Even, apparently, to the point of inviting a Witcher to join them. Whether Jaskier had persuaded them, or the invitation had been sincere and unprompted, Geralt didn't know. It didn't matter.

It was nice, in its own way, to sit and watch them celebrate. He felt no need to join them – the large fire would blind him if he got closer, the smell of every villager full of sweat and lust and alcohol wasn't terribly enticing. But here on the edge of it, it wasn't too bad.

He caught Jaskier watching him with a thoughtful expression, and Geralt scowled. Jaskier just grinned, and bumped against him. “You're having fu-un,” he sang.

“You're ridiculous,” Geralt told him, scowling.

“And yet, it is far too late for you to change your mind,” Jaskier intoned. 

Which didn't make much sense. He was here, but Geralt knew he could leave without giving offense if he decided he'd had enough. 

“About me,” Jaskier said, as though he'd read Geralt's confusion off his face.

He was still confused. “Change my mind about you?”

Jaskier leaned back and raised an arm, waving it slowly at the entire scene before them. “Too late to decide I am too ridiculous for you to endure,” he pronounced, and Geralt wondered if he was already drunk. He'd been pacing himself, wanting to keep performing as long as he could, but now he was talking nonsense.

He didn't smell that drunk, and neither did he smell the scent of any of the somewhat-human-safe mind-altering potions that often made their appearance at festivals.

Jaskier sighed, and leaned back towards him. “You are stuck with me,” he said, clearly, as though he thought Geralt was the drunk one.

It was on the tip of his tongue to make a joke about leaving first thing in the morning, hours before Jaskier would wake up from his inevitable hangover. But Jaskier was looking at him, face so close to Geralt's, and he could see the seriousness in his smile, and the sincerity in his eyes.

Geralt didn't want to leave him behind, and apparently Jaskier knew it. Neither of them had left the other behind...in a very long time. Geralt followed Jaskier to music festivals and Jaskier followed him...everywhere. They only parted for winter, and every year it was more and more obvious they were thinking the same thing.

Sooner or later, one of them was going to ask.

Geralt still didn't know which of them it would be. He didn't really know why Jaskier hadn't asked, already. He was impulsive and bold, running after whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Yet he'd never come out and asked for any of the things Geralt knew he wanted, from him.

The silence was growing, and Geralt didn't know what Jaskier was going to read into it. “That doesn't mean you aren't ridiculous,” Geralt said, seriously.

Jaskier didn't blink, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “And what does that say about you, my dear Witcher?”

Geralt sighed. “That I was dropped on my head as a child.”

Which was true, actually, but not in the way he meant it. But Jaskier laughed, sharp and loud, which was what he'd been after, anyway.

The flower behind his ear fell, and Geralt caught it, hand snapping out quickly without realising what he was doing. He lifted it up to put it back into place and found Jaskier staring at him. “This isn't going to mean we're married, if I put it back?” Geralt asked.

“No,” Jaskier said, again very clearly repressing a grin. “I promise. It is perfectly and completely safe to put my flower back. No contract shall be made, implied or explicit.”

“Are you sure you're not drunk?” Geralt asked. Not that this was strange behavior for him, but something was different. Geralt couldn't figure out what it was.

Other than himself, at a human Midsummer's celebration, because Jaskier had asked him. Sitting with humans, who were laughing and dancing and carrying on as though there wasn't a monster sitting nearby watching them. There was a young girl, sound asleep on the bench next to their own, close enough Geralt could have leaned over and grabbed her foot. No one seemed to notice, or mind her proximity to him.

He looked back at Jaskier, who was still sitting there, watching him. His eyes were wide, focused on him. Geralt could see the flicker of flames reflected in them, and he told himself that was what he found himself momentarily mesmerised by.

“I--” He closed his mouth, because he had no idea. What was happening. What he wanted. 

Jaskier smiled, then, soft and gentle, and he moved his hand to take hold of Geralt's, twining their fingers together. Jaskier turned his head to watch the dancers, and after a moment Geralt glanced towards them. The sun was setting, as late in the day as it ever would, and the celebration would last as far into the night as there was someone awake to make it.

Geralt could easily have sat up and watched the fire burn, had there been a need. But that wasn't the point; there was no ritual demanding it, just the joy and freedom of having the day and as much of the shortest night as they wanted, before life returned to normal the following day.

He found himself wondering what normal he would find tomorrow. He tightened his grip slightly on Jaskier's hand. Whatever it was, he had a feeling it might not be the normal he was used to.

He wondered if he was ready.


End file.
